Jeri Westerson - Shadow of the Alchemist

He could understand someone wishing to have a gold key or even a gold spoon, but a golden nail? What would be the purpose?

He turned the nail in his hand, startled when Tucker lit the candle on the table, giving him more light.

Jack tossed the lit straw into the fire and sat back down. “What are these, Master?”

“Payment.” He did nothing as Jack took up each one, turned them in his hands, and then set them down again.

“Strange. Who gave them to you?”

“Nicholas Flamel.” They exchanged glances.

“You don’t mean to say…”

“These could have been made out of gold in the first place, Jack. Who’s to say they were not? The man has that broach, after all. It is likely that the King of France or some other eccentric French noble had them made and gave these to him.”

“But Master! Who would have cause to make this nail? In gold? It must be that Stone he has. It does work! What a man could do with that!”

“And for that he would kill. And steal a man’s wife.”

Jack’s expression suddenly turned hard. “Even if he were already a rich and noble lord?”

Crispin felt sick. How many times could a man be betrayed? How many times could he allow his heart to be so used?

“You’re thinking of Henry.”

Jack jumped from his stool. “Of course I’m thinking of Lord Henry! But you’re too stubborn to consider him.”

Crispin slammed his hand to the table. “Watch it, Tucker.”

“No. It’s my task to be your conscience, sir. For if you will not listen to the wisdom inside you, it is up to me to point it out. You must go to Lord Henry and ask him straightaway.”

“Don’t you think I already have? And do you think for one moment he would tell me the truth?”

He hadn’t wanted to say it, to think it. He was too afraid that it was true, that Henry had lied and that Crispin had believed that lie. Because he had wanted to.

Crispin scrubbed his face. “I’m too tired to think. Let us get at least a few hours of sleep before we begin again. You have a preacher to find, after all.”

Jack slumped. He nodded. The boy was tired, too. And just as the two of them meandered to their separate corners, there was a knock at the door.

They froze, hands on hilts. Jack went first and opened the door a fraction.

“Is this the home of Crispin Guest? That Tracker fellow?”

The voice was familiar, and Crispin moved Jack aside and opened the door. It was the priest he had met on the street the day before. “My lord?” he said, stepping aside to let him in.

The priest stepped over the threshold and looked around the small room. “I must say, I expected something … more.”

“Yes, well. What can I do for you, Father?”

“I should have introduced myself before. I am Father Edmund from St. Aelred’s church. We talked of the deaths yesterday.…”

“I remember you, Father. Please, sit.” The old priest lowered himself to the chair. “Jack, bring wine for this good priest.”

The priest didn’t argue as Jack scrambled. He grabbed a bowl and wiped its rim with his sleeve and then went to the back window and stopped short, marveling at the jug left by Derby. He shook himself loose and quickly uncorked the wooden stopper and poured.

While Jack brought the wine, Crispin poked the fire and got it going. “It is late, Father Edmund. What brings you to the Shambles?”

“Late? Why, it’s early.” He sipped the wine and his brows rose in surprise at the fine taste.

Crispin chuckled tiredly. “So it is. It only seems late to me.”

Father Edmund set the bowl aside. “My mind has been capering on those deaths, Master Guest. I cannot seem to forget them. I have learned from my fellow priests of many more. Twenty-five so far.”

“Oh? Tell me.”

“So many more than I could ever have imagined. Blessed Virgin. I prayed on it and the Divine presence seemed to hint to me that this was no mere plague.”

“Father…” His brief suspicion suddenly rose up again. “Have you any reason to believe that they might have been … poisoned?”

“Poisoned? To what end? Why should a weaver, a cordwainer, a cobbler, and any number of other craftsmen’s children have been poisoned?”

“It is merely a notion I had in passing, my lord. I have no basis for this theory.”

“Evil witchcraft, more like, targeting the children for some offense. I would pay you to find the source, Master Guest, but I am but a humble priest.”

Crispin eyed his fur-trimmed gown and his rings without comment. “As it happens, I would happily investigate for you on my own. As a concerned citizen.”

“Is it witchcraft, then? How can I help our flock?”

“I know nothing of witchcraft, but something of poisons.”

“Do you persist in this notion, then, of poison?”

“It is not any stranger a notion than witchcraft, is it, Father?”

He shrugged and becrossed himself again.

“Perhaps you could tell me the names and streets that are mourning a loss,” said Crispin. He turned to Jack, who looked back at him with puzzlement before he figured out what Crispin wanted and scrambled to the coffer. The boy opened it and pulled out parchment, quill, and ink. He set them on the table, and when he saw that Crispin had no intention of taking them up, he set them up himself by smoothing out the parchment and uncorking the ink from its clay pot. He dipped the quill in, and with tongue set firmly between his lips, he waited.

The old priest recited names and the streets where the families could be found. Crispin listened to the litany and scrubbed at his eyes. God’s blood, but he was weary. Madam Perenelle’s fate was dire, but these random citizens had all been targeted with death. Something had to be done. But he and Jack needed rest.

Once the priest was finished, Jack stoppered the ink and set the quill aside, glancing over the tiny scrawl of his writing.

“Father Edmund,” said Crispin, “I thank you for coming and assigning me this task. But you must excuse me and my apprentice. We were up the whole of the night on another grim matter. We need a little sleep.”

“Not me, Master. I’ve got a second wind, as it were. Let me go in search of … er…” He looked at the priest eyeing him suspiciously. “You know who,” he said cryptically to Crispin.

Yes, the preacher Robert Pickthorn. The man needed to be found. “Good Father, have you seen this lay preacher, this Robert Pickthorn, again? We would very much like to speak with him.”

“Do you? I daresay he could tell you a kettle full of the sin and vile corruption that permeates the city.”

“Do you know where he is staying? With the bishop or some other worthy?”

“Dear me, no. I know nothing of him. But he is a fiery speaker, so they say.”

“So I have seen.” He turned to the boy. “Go on, Jack. I need at least a few hours’ rest. Come fetch me when you’ve found anything of this Pickthorn.”

Jack nodded, bowed to the priest, and fled out the door.

Father Edmund rose. “Then I shall leave you as well. It seems your hands are full at the moment. I pray that you have the strength to do all you must, Master Guest. I shall light a candle for you.”

Crispin took a coin from the table and pressed it into the priest’s hands, even as he scooped up the others and the golden objects and dropped them again into his pouch. “Do that, my lord. I could use all the help I can get.”

He slept for several hours, waking only when the bells tolled for Sext. Groggily, he sat up and rubbed his eyes. He rinsed his mouth with the leftover wine from the priest’s bowl, brushed and straightened his cotehardie, and left his lodgings.

With Jack’s parchment in his hand, he made his way to Threeneedle Street. He asked some shopkeepers which house it was and was soon led to a weaver’s. When he knocked, a maiden let him in.